The Complicity of Fear
by Nevoreiel
Summary: Dr. Crane works to break one of his patients by any means necessary. Crane/Thomas Schiff.


**Title: **The Complicity of Fear**  
Rating: **R**  
Pairing: **Dr. Jonathan Crane/Thomas Schiff**  
Prompt:** The reason why Shift is as bad off as he is, being that he had Johnathan Crane as a doctor. Mindfuck, panic and non-con (or semi non-con, whatever you can come up with)**  
Warning:** Just as the prompt requires, mindfuck, panic, non-con.  
**Word count: **1,502  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, suing is unnecessary.  
**Notes: **Written for the Batman Kink Meme on LJ. Set while Crane is still a doctor at Arkham. And Schiff is 'Officer Rachel Dawes' in _Dark Knight_. I hope I did Crane and the kinks requested justice. Constructive criticism very welcome.

--

They always scream and scream. Scream themselves hoarse. But not this one, – Schiff, Thomas the crisp, new tab on the file reads – this one just whimpers; jammed in the corner, both arms thrown over his terrified face.

Dr. Jonathan Crane tisks softly and leans closer, inspecting, taking note. The dose had been small, less than 50mg, but had never failed before. And the signs are there: the wild, disoriented, blood-shot eyes, pupils dilated as Schiff tries and fails to avoid looking at the hellish mask, the quick, excited rise and fall of his thin chest laboring for panicked breath.

There is no doubt that he is frightened. But not nearly enough.

It's disappointing, but Jonathan knows he'll relish the challenge. He knows – he's _learned_ – that everyone has a breaking point, and he knows with absolute certainty that this quivering wreck hasn't reached it yet.

"What's the matter? Swallowed your tongue?" He's dropped the file on his desk, and is crouching low, skip-hopping, stalking closer. There's no response, just the constant whine of a trapped animal. With feeble, kicking feet and a squirming slide, Schiff tries to burrow himself further into the corner, pressing his sweaty, tear-stained cheek against the peeling, pastel paint of the wall.

"Oh, no, that won't do," Jonathan chides softly, delighting in the full body shudder when he wraps his hands around the twitching feet and pulls, stand Schiff up, grabs him by the collar and leans in for maximum effect. "How can you expect me to cure you, if you won't communicate?" The last word is lost in a snarl, his coarse mask grazing the chin, the thin, pointed nose.

And now, so close that Jonathan can feel every hot breath, Schiff wheezes and sobs out a barely audible, "please," eyes squeezed shut in anguish as he tries to claw Jonathan's hands off him. The effort is perfunctory, blind and Jonathan deflects the half-hearted blows, all the more inclined to wrap his fingers tightly around the wrists, crushing the bones in his firm grip. He pushes the shaking Schiff flush against the wall, feels the giddiness of power. Feels the bump of hipbones through threadbare Arkham issue clothes as Schiff tries to wriggle away, breathing so hard he is huffing, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Experimentally, Jonathan tilts his hips and fancies a stirring of response. Not exactly what he'd been aiming for, but there is nothing quite like the thrill of something new.

Another forceful push and Schiff's eyes go wide and glassy. Another and he's screeching, kicking out, obliging Jonathan to take a step back in satisfaction.

"I see I've touched a nerve," Jonathan remarks conversationally.

Though pleased and reassured, he cannot let go quickly enough when Schiff soils himself. He drops the wretch in disgust, yanks the burlap sack off and knocks for the guard – paid to hear nothing, see nothing, until required – and requests the janitor. Thankfully there is no carpeting to be replaced.

Schiff continues wailing, gagging on his own snot and tears as he is roughly pulled to his feet and out into the hallway, his screams echoing, setting off those other loonies locked in their cells.

Sat in his chair, Jonathan allows himself a smile. After all, he has ample time to research other similar cases, to be better prepared at the next session. He hasn't had the satisfaction yet of studying a case involving such crippling fear of intimacy.

--

It is several days later, with the shock and tranquilizers having worn off, that Dr. Crane once again asks for Thomas Schiff's company. He wants Schiff as lucid as can be, to better appreciate his predicament. To keep the results pure and untainted.

When he's brought in, Schiff's already shivering, slumping in a metal folding chair, – only the best for his patients – looking small.

"Please, I don't belong here," he whines plaintively. "I'm not crazy."

_So they all say_, Jonathan thinks. Instead, in his most reassuring manner, he says, "Well, we'll fix you right up."

Schiff is stunned into silent stupor, pressing himself as far into his seat as the chair back allows, away from the madman.

Sighing, Jonathan casually props himself against the desk's edge and takes off his glasses. When he places them gently on the stack of files nearest at hand, Schiff flinches. Jonathan doesn't even need his mask to strike fear and it's refreshing. He tilts his head, studies the contorted, sweaty face, knows what makes the left eye twitch in a nervous tick.

"Did you know, as men, we strengthen our own image of fearlessness by making others afraid?" Jonathan seems to ask, but does not expect an answer. Casually, he reaches out and slaps Schiff across the face. Not viciously, just enough to really mean it, but Schiff tumbles out of the chair, sending it to the floor with a clang and clatter, all the same.

Jonathan rolls his shoulders, straightens the sleeves of his jacket and calmly continues with his monologue, willing his patient to understand, "We use fear and threats to dominate others and improve our own standing and power."

Despite a weak struggle, it's easy to pry Schiff away from the door where he scratches in vain. Easy to hold him, trembling, bent over the desk with one hand planted firmly on his back, the other unhurriedly snapping open the buttons in front.

"There's the fear of being seen as feminine, fear of being vulnerable," he informs Schiff, draped over him, pulling the ugly orange off his shoulders, manhandling him into cooperating.

The jumpsuit peels off along with the underwear, grey in its old age, without much resistance. "Then there's the fear of not being powerful enough, fear of not being in control." Schiff grunts when his legs are kicked apart as far as they will go, tangled in his clothing. "Fear of not being a real man," he breathes the last few words close to Schiff's ear for the added thrill of seeing him squirm.

Jonathan has it all worked out, never breaking the skin to skin contact, never exerting undue force, just the threat of it is enough to keep Schiff – already sobbing, biting his lips in an effort to keep a brave face on – compliant.

"And, often most powerful of all, fear of being seen as afraid," he finishes with a flourish, holding Schiff's head at an uncomfortable angle so that they can see eye to eye. When he lets go, Schiff's forehead bounces off the tabletop and there's another pitiful yelp, hands helplessly pressing into his eyes as if he can unsee the whole nightmare.

"Now," he carefully maneuvers around the desk, patting Schiff on the head like a good dog, "are we attracted to what we fear?" He retrieves some lube, a latex glove and a condom from the top drawer – Jonathan refuses to risk getting whatever his patients may have – and replaces them with his glasses for safekeeping.

Sliding his palm over the heaving chest and quivering stomach, down to feel between Schiff's spread thighs, Jonathan is satisfied to note a twitch in response to the pressure. "Or do we fear what attracts us?"

With a snap he pulls on the glove, feels the jolt of alarm, the shudder when he presses his other hand into the sweaty curve at the bottom of Schiff's spine and strokes lazily. "Very easy to mistake fear for desire."

He doesn't try to soothe, nor does he try to hurt more than necessary. Everything in moderation when the prey has been cornered, subdued.

"Unfortunately, fear has a way of freezing you up," he informs Schiff before sliding one, two slippery fingers into his hole. "And good sex requires that you loosen up."

Schiff makes a whimpery choking noise, hands balled into fists, eyes stubbornly squeezed shut. His hips twitch then still, a fine tremor settling in his limbs so that Jonathan has to press harder to keep him still.

A few solid thrusts and Jonathan pulls his fingers out – content – and discards the glove.

Methodically, unhurriedly Jonathan undoes his trousers, tugging himself to hardness. "Apprehension, performance anxiety, lack of confidence, terror or mistrust can inhibit and ruin you sexually," Jonathan pauses, rolls on the rubber, continues, "turning you into an unfortunate victim of your own fear."

When he eases himself in, firmly, but without hurry, there is no piercing shriek.

There is no grunt of pain or pleasure. Schiff makes no noise, stays industriously quiet. Just lies limp as a sack of flour on the good doctor's desk. Lies there and takes it in dazed complicity.

With calculated, methodical, steady strokes, he begins to knead Schiff through his bunched up clothing. Pushes and pulls him to keep the rhythm steady. Awkwardly, Jonathan grasps him by the chin, wants to see the expression on his face when he asks, "You have to ask yourself, does this excite you?"

Schiff groans, giggles, his eyes now looking intently, staring but not seeing. And Jonathan knows that he has another success on his hands.

_end._


End file.
